A Warden's Lament
by Riptide Monzarc
Summary: Alistair just wants to do the right thing, but he can't help tripping over his own two feet. Will a crown be worth denying his heart, or will it prove to heavy for him?


Author's note: Alistair/Surana, the first of two chapters. Reviews are always welcome!

Based on a prompt provided by **Avrielle Rogue**.You should check out her wonderful story, _A Warden's Celebration_, here: s/9466904/1/A-Warden-s-Celebration

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He had to stop short at the open doorway to gather his thoughts, which had been whirring like a litter of mabari pups-or, rather, like a nest of angry hornets-ever since he'd left Anora after their little _chat_. It hadn't felt like a conversation so much as a negotiation in a language he didn't speak, the terms of which he couldn't begin to fathom. All he knew was that he was getting married, and not to the woman who'd captured his heart and wrapped it in a bed of roses. Now it felt like the petals were wilting, leaving thorns to claw at the inside of his ribs, and he could barely breathe as he gripped the door jamb, his hand shaking in its glove.

_She_ was there, in the arl's study, lounging in fine robes she'd only gotten a couple of days ago upon their arrival in Denerim, reading one of Eamon's leather-bound books. It was odd to see her so clean, after slogging through three seasons of Fereldan mud and snow in patched-together civilians' clothes inexpertly enchanted. For the first time since the Korcari Wilds, she looked like a Circle mage, of the kind that Alistair had been so worried about having to watch over during his templar training. He'd thought that Duncan had freed him of that particular worry, but liked with so many things, he'd been wrong. _The Maker must have a sense of humour_, he thought, swallowing, trying to summon just a glimmer of the courage that Maya had shown over and over again on their journey, from the Tower of Ishal to the Anvil of the Void. He was going to need that courage to do what must be done, and the longer he delayed it, the harder it would become.

"Maya," he called, softly, as he stepped over the threshold. It nearly ended him when her impossibly-green eyes flitted up from her book, and the instant look of pleasure on her freckle-dusted cheeks almost set the rosebush in his chest ablaze. He had to fight to keep his lips from tugging up in a sympathetic grin. "We...need to talk."

Those green eyes blinked, her brows drawing together as she shifted to a sitting position. When it became clear that Alistair wouldn't step closer, she stood, sweeping a curtain of chestnut curls behind a pointed ear. "Did it not go well with the queen?" She ventured, uncertain.

"No," Alistair sighed. "I mean, well, _yes_...we had a...a talk," he corrected, "and we...that is to say _she_...came to a decision. It's all planned out, will be announced at the Landsmeet. _Eamon'll_ be happy, at least."

"But not you?"

"I...no, not really," the reluctant prince admitted. "Not at all, actually." Maya's expression shifted from confusion to more obvious concern, and she closed the gap between them with surprisingly few steps. It was as natural as breathing to fold into her embrace, to let his strong arms lace across her back and pull her into his chest. He buried his miserable face in the corner of her lithe neck, breathing deeply, shuddering at the trace scent of wildflowers that still clung to her hair. He'd braided the petals into her hair himself, just three days ago, before the alienage and Anora's presence in Eamon's great house, before the promise had passed his lips and locked his hopes at the bottom of a dungeon of duty. "I'm so, so sorry, my love," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

The elven Warden stiffened in his arms, but she didn't pull away or move to look at him. "What do you mean?" She ventured, lightly, her breath a teasing breeze against his neck that he would've welcomed not half an hour before.

It was Alistair who drew back, his hands settling at her hips. His lips parted; a breath came and went, and then another, before he finally found his voice again. "I...I can't do it," he strangled out, and by the flash in her eyes, he guessed that she what _it_ was. "I'm...sorry. I love you too much." _So much_.

It was hardly the first time he'd expressed his feelings; a good _I love you, Maya Surana_ could break up the monotony of hiking through another boggy forest or hacking off another genlock's arm quite nicely, in fact, right up there with _Down you go_ or _I never knew woodpeckers were so rude_. Apart from the sheer truth of the expression, it was always worth hearing the retching from Morrigan's direction whenever those three words came from Alistair's lips...not to mention the dawning grin which they'd never failed to drag across Maya's face.

_Never until now, that is_, he realised, as he watched the storm gathering on the edges of her features. "What are you saying?" She asked again, but she didn't wait for an answer. "Is this...are you...are we…"

"We can't do this anymore, Mai," he said, his vision blurring before he closed his eyes. "I've spent my life around powerful men, married men, who..._carried on_ with elves."

Maya did step back, then, her robes slipping through Alistair's suddenly-nerveless fingers. "Is that what I am to you?" She asked, in a voice so small it was hard to believe the same throat could nearly make an ogre's ears bleed in the thick of the fight. "An elf you're _carrying on_ with?"

His lips parted, _Of course not_ and _I'm so sorry_ fighting to crawl out of his mouth at once, to the effect that his tongue refused to cooperate at all, and he had to shake his head. Swallowing gave him a moment to think. "No," he managed. "But that's what you'll be to everyone else."

"Have you considered," she answered, a bit more forcefully, "that I do not care what I am to _everyone else_?" There was lightning gathering in her eyes, and Alistair couldn't tell if it was her magic or simply his imagination. "You know that doesn't matter to me, Alistair."

The man took another shaking breath, shaking his head again. "I know," he affirmed. She'd grown up in the Circle, with no memories of any place beyond the shores of the island on which its tower stood, surrounded by templars and other mages. There was no such thing as marriage, no family as the rest of Thedas understood the term, nothing much beyond hurried trysts in shadowed corners. Falling in love was a luxury of the outside world; within the tower's walls, it was just another weakness the templars could exploit. All this and more Maya had told him on watches they'd sat, or as they lay sleeplessly in their bedrolls under the stars, and eventually within the tent they'd come to share. But he'd grown up in a castle, and then a Chantry; isolated, but hardly cloistered, he'd seen a parade of freeholders and banns pledge their vows to beloved wives or husbands, and he'd overheard rumours beyond the counting about bann so-and-so straying on his wife or freeholder such-and-such cuckolding her husband. _With an _elf_ of all things_ was always the most scandalous whisper of them all. "But it _matters_, Maya. Maker's breath, you know I don't want this, but I'm going to be king. That means that once this is over, if we both survive the Blight, _you'll_ have to lead the Wardens in this country, rebuild them, make sure they're respected by the kinds of people who _do_ care." He was weeping, now, even as he spoke. "I can't put you through that. It'll be hard enough as it is."

A few strands of those chestnut locks rose, and Alistair's recently-honed templar skills buzzed with a surge of barely-suppressed magic. "Well, then," Maya breathed, a half-buried chuckle colouring her voice, as sharp as the blade at the end of her staff. "It seems you've decided everything, _Your Majesty_." This she said with the faintest of bows, though her eyes did not drop an inch. "May I go?"

"Don't do that, Mai," he begged. "Please don't shut me out." There was still more to say, so much that he didn't know where to begin, and she hadn't said _anything_, and he couldn't live with himself if he never saw that smile again...but it was too late. He could see that when Maya raised her hand, balled into a fist, sparks dancing across her knuckles.

"Allow me to rephrase, _Li_," she countered. "Move, or I'll act like you're the door you're pretending to be. Don't think I won't."

The threat was real enough, but for a heartbeat Alistair wondered if he hadn't been stung more by the acid edge she'd given his pet-name than he would've done by a bolt of energy. Still, he found his feet shuffling to the side, unable to keep from watching her sweep from the room. He told himself he knew better than to follow, but he took a step toward the doorway, regardless; it was only an iron-hard hand clapping down on his shoulder that kept him from following that step with another.

"I am thinking this wonderful land of fur and mud can ill-afford you diving headlong down the foolhardy path, _mi amigo integro_." Zevran's grip relaxed as he came alongside the other man in the doorway; whence he'd come, Alistair had not an inkling. "Though, admittedly, I have little understanding of the urge to chase after an angry woman, especially if I am the cause of her anger."

Delicately, finger by finger, the Antivan peeled his hand from Alistair's shoulder. "I just...I don't know what to do. Maker, Zev, I don't don't know what to do."

Zevran shook his head slowly, almost pityingly. "Were you less honourable, I would suggest a stroll along the docks to clear your head, among other things. But an inventory of the arl's wine casks might be a decent idea."

It _was_ an excellent idea, as it happened, at least until the next morning, and most of the next afternoon. But after his hangover wore off Maya still refused to acknowledge him in the halls of the estate, and despite their similar appetites, he didn't catch her in the kitchens that night. He could find little comfort in the companions they'd gathered; Shale and Sten were utterly indifferent to the situation, Oghren was always too deep in his cups to care. Dane, of course, was completely unapproachable. If anything, Wynne seemed pleased, or at least looked slightly less severe whenever she caught sight of him. Zevran's advice had already been given and only partly followed. Leliana was aloof, not unsympathetic, but unwilling to show favour to either Warden. And Morrigan…well, the one time he crossed paths with Morrigan that day, he hadn't bothered hanging around long enough to question the gleam of appraisal that snuck into her glance, beneath the accustomed contempt. Eamon was far too relieved at the _arrangements_ to confide in, and Alistair would rather crawl through a field of broken wine bottles than seek out Anora at the moment.

That was why Alistair spent the days before the Landsmeet with his thoughts. When he'd lost Duncan, she'd been there for him in those first dark days, when they were both terrified, virtual strangers, with a task beyond either of their comprehension. She'd been there for him in Redcliffe, when it looked like darkspawn would be the least of their worries. She'd been there for him after they'd decimated Haven and he could barely cope with all the innocent people they'd had to kill. Not long after, _he_ was able to be there for _her_ in the Circle Tower, in between wading through rivers of blood shed by the only family she'd ever known. In this way they became friends, confidantes, and, eventually, lovers. But that was all gone, now, as quickly and inevitably as a sunset. All that was left to him now was a terrible duty he hadn't asked for, over and above the death sentence in his blood.

Duty, yes. Along with revenge.

oOoOo

"...And then I actually _kissed_ the frog. Just like it was a prince under a spell. Can you imagine?"

Alistair hid his sigh behind a deep draught of wine; he _could_ imagine, all too much and all too well. He could imagine himself saying _yes_. He could imagine himself standing beside her as the grand cleric pronounced them joined into one heart, and as the Landsmeet acclaimed her his queen. Maker, he could even imagine himself falling in love with her, someday.

But that day was not this day, and Arlessa Ariana must have sensed it, judging by her wry smile. "You've not heard a word I've said, have you, Your Majesty?"

The King of Ferelden ran a hand over the stubble that never quite coalesced into a beard, and this time he couldn't deflect the sigh that slipped from his lips. "I apologise, my lady," he allowed, not bothering to hide his chagrin. "I suppose I should ask what happened to the frog, then."

Ariana's laugh was authentic, more so than he'd heard all through their supper. "Perhaps you'd care to discover first-hand?"

There was an offer, there, under the joke, and one that had nothing to do with politics or Chantries or dynasties. "That depends," he drawled, after another sip of wine had loosened his tongue, "on exactly what kind of test you're proposing, and whether or not I get to choose where the test is to be given."

He could tell by the colour tinging her cheeks that the arlessa had correctly guessed his implication, and some genuine curiosity bled through the mask of feigned interest she'd worn all evening. "Oh," she sighed, "I think it might require a thorough examination, Your Majesty."

Those two words stuck like a knife in Alistair's chest, a reminder that he was above all a king, beholden to more than his own desires. And so, though Ariana was stunningly beautiful and strong, though he was certain she was no more interested in becoming the Queen of Ferelden than she was in becoming Empress of Orlais, and though he'd gone more than two years without even kissing another person, the King of Ferelden settled heavily back in his seat. "It has been a marvelous supper, Arlessa Ariana," he assured her, with a smile not quite as bland as the stews he used to make on the road. "Please give the Arling of Edgehall my warmest regards, when you elect to return."

While not a formal dismissal, the arlessa must have sensed that their dance had ended before it had even properly begun. "I shall, Your Majesty," she replied. She only tried one or two more threads of awkward conversation before deciding to retire to the guests' chambers.

More of him than he wanted to admit urged him to follow her, but when Alistair rose, he retreated back to his study, to face his sort-of-uncles' disappointment yet again. Teagan stood leaning against a bookshelf, while Eamon sat at the desk as though he were in his own castle in Redcliffe. The greys in his thick beard had only multiplied since his ordeal with Loghain's poison and the aftermath of the demon's intervention, but even so, he looked haggard as he surveyed the younger man. "And what was wrong with _this_ one, my boy?"

Alistair swallowed, shrugging, suddenly feeling too warm in his fancy doublet with his full belly; even now, he woke up some mornings expecting rough underpadding and cold leftover stew and the scent of wild honeysuckle. "Nothing," he admitted. "Ariana is...perfect, and I think she would make a good queen."

The arl pinched the bridge of his nose. "And yet you will not wed her, nor even bed her on the off chance that she would produce even an illegitimate heir to secure your line," he observed. "For Andraste's sake, lad, as well as your own...tell me why."

"Because," Alistair ventured, "I...do not love her."

Arl Eamon scoffed. "Love has nothing to do with it, my boy," he said, not for the first time that week. "You must be pragmatic if you wish to retain the throne you won during the Blight."

Alistair grimaced. He'd vowed once to marry out of pragmatism, only to watch that pragmatism drain away like Loghain's blood from the end of his sword. In the end Anora had gone to Gwaren as its teyrna, ruling the land competently and well, and only returning to Denerim to make her voice heard during the Landsmeet. She'd married a bann with Alistair's blessing and had given birth to a pair of twins since quitting the capitol, a fact which Eamon sometimes brought up during these little post-supper chats of theirs. That he had initially downplayed the broken betrothal as a positive because of Anora's supposed infertility gave the old man no pause that Alistair had ever sensed.

Teagan stepped into the long gap left by the king's private musings. "Was it pragmatism which brought Isolde over the Frostbacks and nearly cost you half your freeholders, dear brother?"

Eamon's cheeks faintly reddened beneath his whiskers, Alistair thought, but it might have been a trick of the candlelight. "And I need not remind you that my obstinacy did not exactly result in the best outcome for my people," he pointed out, and then he rose slowly to his feet. "Had I listened to my wise counsellors, I might well have saved Redcliffe a great deal of grief during the Blight."

"You cannot know that, Eamon," Teagan insisted, the familiarity of fraternity giving him leeway to chastise the arl without fear. "And it is all well and good trying to tell the boy to avoid your mistakes, but that hasn't precisely worked out in the outcome you desire, has it?"

The elder brother turned to face the younger, leaving Alistair quite out of the centre of attention, which he was very comfortable with. "What you propose is madness, Teagan," Eamon said, and the king got the sense that the arl was again repeating himself. "The Landsmeet will never stand for it."

Alistair blinked, his head still a bit cloudy from the supper wine. "What are you two talking about? Do _you_ want to be king, Teagan?" The question was only half in jest, for if the older man had truly shown any desire for the role, Alistair wasn't certain he wouldn't surrender his crown before the fortnight was through.

But, alas, the bann's laugh dispelled any fantasies of retiring that Alistair might have wished to entertain. "Nonsense, Your Majesty. In any case, you know I've not yet wed, and have no heirs apparent. Given my age, it'd be a hard sell to the other nobles, even if I had a drop of Calenhad's blood in my veins."

Alistair swallowed hard against the twin objections that rose in the back of his throat. On the one hand, Fereldan noble bloodlines were just as intertwined as any kingdom's, and he was certain that _some_ connection between the Guerrins and the Theirins could be found or fabricated; on the other, it was almost certain that Teagan could produce an heir more reliably than Alistair would...though neither Teagan nor Eamon knew that. He might not be a very good one, but he was still a Grey Warden, and he could still keep a few of their secrets. Clearing his throat, Alistair shook his head. "Then what are you on about?" He broached. "What _else_ won't the Landsmeet stand for?"

Eamon veritably rolled his eyes, while Teagan drew in a steadying breath. "As of tonight, you have met and dined with every Fereldan noblewoman of note, from all corners of the country, and even three foreign princesses that would have proved acceptable matches. Sometimes with excuses and sometimes without, you've politely declined to offer your hand to any of them-"

"-Much to the consternation of the nobles of the Landsmeet," Eamon cut in, provoking a wince from the young king.

Teagan threw his brother a glance, waiting until it was clear he wouldn't be interrupted again before continuing. "I know _why_ you've found everyone wanting," he admitted, his eyes going to the middle distance and his lips grimacing beneath his goatee. "There is someone who's already taken your heart, to whom everyone else simply fails to measure up. Don't bother denying it," the bann insisted, when Alistair's fumbling tongue tried to marshal an objection. "Even if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, it's obvious to Eamon and I that you were madly in love with the Commander of the Grey during the Blight. Despite your protests to the contrary, it's equally obvious that you still _are_, as well."

Arl Eamon scoffed, and it wasn't clear whether he was more disgusted with his brother or his not-quite-nephew. "Even if that is true," he insisted, "it is irrelevant. Marriage is not and should not be the business of love, but of alliance. Teagan's proposal gains us nothing, and stands us to lose everything."

The portrait wasn't exactly clear, but Alistair was getting a better idea what Bann Teagan was driving at. "Wait...you mean…"

"I mean that if you will not marry someone you do not love, then we should consider extending an invitation to someone you do." Eamon made another noise to interrupt again, but Teagan plowed on. "The situation is quite simple; if you do not soon marry and shortly thereafter produce an heir, the Landsmeet will select someone for the throne who _can_."

"And then all we've worked for," Eamon broke in, with a glare to his brother, "all Maric and Rowan fought for and built will have been for nothing. But if you think the banns, arls, and teyrns of Ferelden will accept an elven apostate as their queen-"

"An elven apostate who happens to be the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Redcliffe," Teagan pointed out, "and the only reason Ferelden isn't a burning crater being squabbled over by Orlesian dukes at this very moment. If there is any Fereldan more worthy of sharing the throne with Alistair, we would be hard pressed to name her."

Alistair's throat dried up like a desert, saving him from stammering incoherently. Teagan and Eamon were his closest advisors, as close to father figures as he'd ever had in his life, and this line of reasoning on the Bann of Rainesfere's part was entirely unexpected. He'd spent much of the last two years trying to convince them that he was over Maya; he hadn't seen the woman since she'd taken possession of Vigil's Keep, and that one meeting was enough to convince him that she wasn't going to forgive him for the mess he'd made of things. "Excuse me," he said, but his words were lost in the brothers' continued bickering. "Hey!" He called, more loudly, getting the older men's attention. "You might have seen me covered in mud, but you made me your king, and I _will_ get a word in edgeways. Do you understand?"

Eamon gathered himself first, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Yes, Your Majesty?" He allowed, his obsequeity only slightly feigned. "What have you to say about my brother's mad idea?"

Teagan's voice rose in protest, but Alistair overrode him. "I think you're forgetting," he observed, "that the one woman I love is likely the only woman in the country who would reject anything I suggested, whether it was what to eat for breakfast or to spend the rest of her life with me." _And it's all my fault_, he reflected, smirking at himself. _If I hadn't been so stupid…_

"Be that as it may," Teagan insisted, "we cannot continue as we've done thus far without fear of renewed civil war. We must ask ourselves if that risk is worth the asking...of the Landsmeet, to accept the Warden, and of the Warden to accept the Landsmeet." The bann's gaze rested heavily upon the king. "What say you, Alistair? Would you sacrifice your crown for the one you love, or sacrifice your love to keep your crown?"

When put in those terms, the King of Ferelden saw that there was no real choice. He couldn't continue as he had been, spending his days sitting in judgment of petty squabbles amongst his banns and his evenings fending off advances from eligible noblewomen, most of whom desired and deserved the throne more than he himself did. No, if there was anything the last two years had taught him, it was that he would rather chase his heart into oblivion than cut his palms to the bone grasping desperately at the circlet of iron that Eamon and Teagan had won him. "Alright," he said, a hollow in his chest tugging at the inside of his ribs. "But only on one condition," he stipulated, squaring his shoulders. "I'll deliver the message myself, and bring back her reply."

Eamon's whiskers twitched. "My boy…"

"No," Alistair corrected him. "Your king, at least for the nonce. And if Maya will have me, she'll be your queen." _If_ she'd have him, and that was a big _if_. But by the Maker, he was willing to try.


End file.
